


if he’s as bad as they say, then I guess I’m worse

by Crossley



Series: 3H Kink Meme [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Academy Era, Cunnilingus, Degradation, Dehumanization, Dimitri's Not The Only Feral One Around Here, Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Kink Meme, Marianne's Got Some Issues To Work Through, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rough Body Play, Suicidal Thoughts, Under-negotiated Kink, Verbal Humiliation, Violent Sex, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:41:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23975425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crossley/pseuds/Crossley
Summary: The first time she sees him he's shining gold and royal blue, soft mouth and warm hands.She wants to tear his soft mouth open with her teeth, watch it bleed over the blue.Dimitri isn't the only one at Garreg Mach Academy with a beast lurking inside them. Kink meme fill.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Marianne von Edmund
Series: 3H Kink Meme [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728610
Comments: 18
Kudos: 79
Collections: FE3H Kink Meme





	if he’s as bad as they say, then I guess I’m worse

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings.** Referenced childhood corporal punishment, mental health issues, suicide ideation, intrusive thoughts, wildly undernegotiated kink, humiliation/degradation, dehumanization, face/head slapping, spitting, dub-con elements.
> 
> Prompt from the kinkmeme as follows: [Dimitri/Marianne - fem Dom/feral]()  
> Where Marianne is the feral beast in bed, not Dimitri, and luckily he can withstand her.  
> -Lots of aftercare for mariannes Dom-drop  
> -Dimitri being very into it.  
> -biting, scraping, drooling, dehydration and exhaustion  
> -“mind break” without the intentional breaking
> 
> Didn't get to all the requested points due to writing lil baby monsters, but I may come back for another round. ~~Gotta rep that Bottom Dimitri Life.~~
> 
> Title from Lana Del Rey's [Happiness is a butterfly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nbcXvlEa7Wk).

On the day Marianne’s old governess drops her on Margrave Edmund's doorstep, the governess squints at Marianne and says, "Don't give the Margrave any reason to kick you out, girl."

Marianne looks up at the governess with her frizzy, graying hair and wall-thick glasses. She blinks, and the governess's eyes are bloodied ruins, a single smushed eyeball hanging by a sinewed thread, her body filleted from neck to navel as she hangs from the magnolia tree by her entrails.

Marianne blinks, and the woman is hale and hearty again, with that terrible little sneer she gets before the tawse comes down on Marianne’s backside.

"What are you thinking, girl?" the governess demands.

"N-nothing," Marianne whimpers, cringing in advance. Nothing the governess can do to her would be worse than whatever Marianne's mind conjures in response.

* * *

It becomes a fixture of her life: she blinks, and they are torn apart by her teeth and her claws and her rage. She blinks again, and the world straightens itself out.

She tries to fight it. She learns to heal broken bones and nurse orphaned foals and throws up after every sword practice.

The day the Margrave tells her she's to attend Garreg Mach Academy, blood spills from his mouth and his arms are bloodied stumps. Marianne cries herself to sleep for a week.

* * *

There's a beast inside her, they say.

* * *

The first time she sees him he's shining gold and royal blue, soft mouth and warm hands.

She wants to tear his soft mouth open with her teeth, watch it bleed over the blue.

* * *

Marianne finds him praying at the cathedral some nights. He prays for victory, for justice.

She stays away, even though there’s a gentle sort of understanding buried in their conversations. He calls her a lucky charm and she doesn’t hit him, doesn’t scream; she lets herself roll the idea around in her head for a while. She tries to stay away and pray for death, because it's safer, safer than the images that dance behind her lids: Claude strung up by his own bowstring, Hilda decapitated on her axe, Lysithea's body half-rotted and encased in ice. He worms his way into the corners of her vision, and when she blinks, he is bloodstained and snarling but never, ever dead.

(Sometimes, she sees the Blue Lions, torn limb from limb and piled at his feet, but he stays standing and the shining gold prince is blood-matted and bruised and smiling at her, manic and crazed; he smiles and there's a beast inside him, too, and the beast inside her smiles back. Kin recognizing kin.)

* * *

There's a beast inside her.

It wants to tear him open and drink his blood.

* * *

There's a beast inside him, too.

She thinks it might let her.

* * *

Hilda holds her hand as the Flame Emperor's mask falls away, and so does the prince's.

His beast snarls and snaps men's necks like twigs, it tears an arm off one man and a leg from another, it bites and claws and laughs, laughs, and laughs, bloodied and wild and free.

Her beast whispers: _see? That could be us, if only you were honest._

* * *

Marianne finds him in the cathedral, pacing up and down pews that have been torn from their bolts and thrown across the room, muttering about _that woman_ 's head.

"Leave me," his beast commands.

She straightens her back, and her beast answers, "No."

He scowls and tries to push past her, but Marianne steps in front of him.

“Out of my way, Marianne,” he growls in throaty tones, but he hesitates to push around her again.

He thinks she’s a maiden looking to tame a beast, like something out of a fairytale. He thinks he is protecting her from the animal within him. But Marianne is no fair maiden.

Marianne is the monster in the dark. He’s a vicious beast but he‘s a latecomer to the shadows. _This is her birthright._

She grabs his chin and forces him to face her, and his eyes are round as he sputters, “What are you—”

Marianne bites his lips as she kisses him. “Animals don’t talk,” she snarls at him, “and that’s what you are, aren’t you?”

His eyes widen, but he nods, quick, sharp, breathy. “Yes,” he whispers, “yes I am—”

The crack of her hand across his face echoes through the cathedral. “Shut up,” she hisses. “Dumb beast.”

He touches his hands to the glowing red spot she left on his cheek, then to the blood on his lips. For a moment Marianne quavers, and even the beast singing in glee within her pauses its song, waits for his response.

The beast-prince drops to his hands and knees with a soft, desperate moan, nosing at the hem of her skirts, and her beast sings loud enough to deafen the cathedral, ringing in her ears as the beast-prince begs entrance to her most sacred spot.

She does not yield so easy. She kicks him in the gut, watches him double over on the ground, and laughs, _laughs._

What does his classmate call him? Some kind of animal?

“Stupid boar,” she spits as the memory finds her and he cries out even louder, keening as the insult burrows its way into his brain. She spits on his face and he groans so loud it startles her for a moment, long enough for _what are you doing?_ to streak across her mind. The beast doesn’t care, and neither does Marianne.

Worthless beast-prince, wretched fool, reduced to a kicked puppy so quickly. She claws at his gauntlets. “Take these things off,” she snaps, “animals don’t wear clothes, either.”

Her heart thrills when he obeys her, the beast-prince still sniffing around her skirts too eagerly. He yanks off the gauntlets and the greaves, then tears off his clothing, ripping echoing through the cathedral, leaving nothing but scraps of fabric behind. His cock is red and dripping, as beastly as the rest of him.

“Stroke it until you’re close,” she orders him.

He does, he does, and her beast-prince has a beautiful body, all hard muscle and sinew and even his scars enhance the lines of him, and he’s touching himself in the middle of a cathedral, exposing himself like the debased animal he is (like they are) at her command. Even the Archbishop could walk in at any moment and see them, see she’s reduced her Beast Prince of Faerghus to a lap dog humping her shin and that’s so hot, it throbs deep and wild in her cunt and she needs, she needs—

Her beast-prince makes a strangled noise that Marianne interprets as “close,” and Marianne kicks at his hand, hikes up her skirts, and puts her cunt in his face. He’s sloppy and raw, a dumb brute who licks with abandon and sucks on the lips of her cunt as he takes himself back in hand—

“Don’t you dare,” she snarls as she digs her nails into his neck and he groans with abandon into her folds, even more eager to ravage her with lips and teeth and tongue. She’s not quite finished her menses this month and he looks up at her with an unvarnished glee, face smeared in her blood, wild and cruel and free as he was back in the Holy Tomb.

“Get back to work, _boar_ ,” she growls at him, grinding her cunt into his nose, and he sobs into her cunt while he licks her as if this were his last meal on Fódlan.

(Maybe it is.)

The position is awkward and he is sloppy, nippy despite her warning smacks to the back of his head. He’s not quite sure where her core is. Marianne’s fingers come down and guide him to the spot Hilda taught her about, the one even her own unpracticed fingers have not quite mastered stroking, and it’s too much and it’s not enough, but he’s an animal, _her_ animal, and she is an animal too, they are murderers both and blights upon humanity and they are monsters, monsters, _monsters—_

“You’ll never be anything but a monster!” Marianne screams as her legs shake so hard that she falls into his arms. He holds her as her body rocks and she cries up to the heavens that never listen to a damned word she says or she’d be _dead_ right now.

There’s an answering cry, the roar of her beast-prince accepting his place at her feet as his body shakes, even as it keeps her stable, keeps her from spinning out of this world and into the darkness.

She comes back to herself, and sees the puddle he left on the ground. Rage burns in her. “Lick it up,” she snaps.

For a moment, he stares at her with an incredulous expression, the sort humans make, not beasts like them. She answers with a growl, and he whines as his tongue touches the sticky puddle. His cock’s already half-hard again and—

 _—and what is she doing?_ The awful things she’s said and done to her beast—to Dimitri, this isn’t her, this isn’t her, but it is, it is, _it is—_

It’s sometime much later, with Dimitri’s arms banded tight around her, that Marianne returns to herself and sees the marks her beast left on him, her cheeks sticky from her tears. The blood on his face, the raking of her claws down his chest. All of this he took with the patience of a man who believed himself no better.

She’s the monster. Always has been.

“I’m sorry,” she cries into his chest, because he refuses to let her push him away. “I’m nothing but a—”

“A beast,” Dimitri whispers, reverently brushing the hair back from her eyes. His gaze is warm and too, too fond. He sounds happy and it makes her sick. “Just like me. What a pair we make, don’t we, Marianne?”

Even now, sweet as he’s turned up for her, the cold gleam of the beast lurks in his eyes. He’s hard for her again. _Just a rutting animal._

Marianne yelps. “I’m sorry,” she gasps out one last time, a useless apology as she wriggles out of the warmth and the dark promise of his arms and rushes to her room, uncaring who sees her disheveled uniform.

She cries herself sick that night as her clumsy hands work over her cunt, the memory of the beast-prince beneath her thighs keeping her core burning like a furnace.


End file.
